


Lead Me On

by lawatsonholmes, Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Power Play, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawatsonholmes/pseuds/lawatsonholmes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John resorts to rather drastic, commanding, forceful measures to get Sherlock to come the hell in out of the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lead Me On

“Just ten more minutes, John.”

“No, no.” John shook his head, water droplets flying from his dripping hair. “Sherlock, no, not even five more minutes. We’ve been going nonstop for the last thirty-six hours. I’m freezing and soaked, and you’re well on your way to pneumonia.”

“Medical hyperbole from a licensed physician. I am rightfully appalled.” Sherlock bit back a cough on the final syllable. “No wonder politicians go on about the NHS.  Here. Hold the binoculars for a moment.” As he handed John the binoculars, he began searching through the pockets of his long slate-coloured coat.

“Sherlock.” John slipped the binoculars around Sherlock’s neck and grabbed the strap. “If you don’t follow me ho—back to Baker Street right now, I will choke you with this. Do you understand me?” He tightened his grip to prove he wasn’t joking.

The faintest shadow of a wicked grin played upon Sherlock’s lips. “I really don’t think you would.” He withdrew a tattered business card from his pocket. “I believe the lettering on this card is the same typeface as the signage in that office; that might be the evidence that links them both to the money-laundering scheme.” Sherlock held the card out to John but did not take his eyes from the second-storey window he’d been peering at for the past forty minutes. When he heard the huffs of John’s growing exasperation, he couldn’t help but murmur, “And anyway, I’d like to see you even try…..”

John inched his hands higher on the strap, effectively tilting Sherlock’s head back until he had to look at John. “Don’t tempt me,” he said through gritted teeth. He felt his jaw tic as he raised on his toes (so humiliating being shorter than this giant wanker) and pressed against Sherlock. “One of two things is going to happen. Either I let you go, and we go back to Baker Street where a hot shower and tea are waiting, or you die of asphyxiation right here. And don’t—” He tugged hard on the strap for emphasis. “Try to seduce me in the sodding rain.” 

The slight constriction from the binocular strap was barely enough to make a difference, but Sherlock allowed his voice to become much more breathy, velvety. “John… how could I attempt to seduce you like this… How could I do anything but obey your every command?” Sherlock hid the satisfied grin he felt as John’s blue eyes grew darker and darker with lust. Slowly, he shifted his body closer against John’s. Not much, just enough to feel the growing reaction his voice and his words were causing.

_Fuckfuckbuggeryfuck_. John swiped his tongue over his lips and shook his head. He would not let Sherlock do this to him, he would not. He pulled himself up, straightened his shoulders, and put every ounce of angry commanding officer he could muster in his tone as he said, “No.” Then he turned and started walking, still grasping the binoculars’ strap with one hand, and tugged Sherlock along behind him. “Just you wait, Sherlock Holmes,” he threw over his shoulder as he barged down the street. “I’ll make you sorry for this. Out in a bloody cold downpour with a hard-on, thanks to you, you arse.”

After about five minutes of this, Sherlock dug in his heels. “Yes, all right, I’m following. There’s no need to drag me along behind you like your dog, John.”

“Yes, there is.” John quipped and nearly pulled Sherlock off-balance as he continued down the pavement.

When they reached the door of their flat, John fished out the keys with one hand, still holding tightly to the binoculars’ strap with the other.  

“John. John, you can let go, now.”

“Stay.” John released the strap, fumbling the keys with frozen hands. When he managed to unlock the door, he grabbed the strap again and went inside, pulling Sherlock after him. He marched up the stairs and into the flat, letting go only to shut the door behind Sherlock, then jerked his sopping coat open and peeled it from his arms. “Clothes. Off. Now.”

“John—”

John pushed Sherlock against the door. “When I want you to say something, I’ll tell you.”

Sherlock searched John’s eyes for a moment and saw the gritty determination mixed with passion and, well, outright lust. He pressed his lips together to keep from answering back. The black suit-jacket fell to the floor. Slowly, he undid the buttons of his fitted, white shirt, unbuttoned the cuffs, pulled loose the shirt-tails. John’s expression remained the same. Sherlock let the shirt fall from his shoulders. Even if he’d wanted to do so, he could not have hidden the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He moved trembling fingers down to unbuckle his belt.

“Stop.” John reached out and put his hand over Sherlock’s. He stepped closer, pressed his cold, wet clothes against the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock’s chest, and the resulting gasp shot want to the base of John’s spine. He cupped his hand over Sherlock’s crotch, lazily stroked his hand up and down. “Do you want these trousers off, Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallowed hard and looked at John, into dark blue eyes full of heat and challenge.

“You can say yes.” John squeezed gently.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, voice thick and rough.

John smiled, tilted his head, and snaked his tongue out to lick a line from the center of Sherlock’s chest over his throat to his chin then nipped greedily at Sherlock’s bottom lip. He smiled at Sherlock’s quick, shallow inhale. “Say ‘I’m sorry, John.’”

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back, exposing the long, white neck that he knew drove John wild - even more so now, with the leather strap still laying against it, a faint mark still visible from moments before. John could see Sherlock’s pulse throbbing, feel his hips pushing harder against his touch.  ”I’m…,” Sherlock panted,struggled to form coherent, audible words, “I’m…ss-sorry…John.”

For a moment, the strap around Sherlock’s neck tightened again as John pulled it tighter, and still tighter, until their faces were millimetres apart, Sherlock’s body contorted to match John’s height. John kissed him, softly, and moved his other hand to take the binoculars themselves and lift them up and over Sherlock’s head, freeing him. 

“Thank you,” John said, pulling Sherlock back, quite gently this time, into another kiss. “Now. Let’s go to bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Liveblogged" on tumbler with lawatsonholmes (idratherbereading)


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